The Reign of Ice
by The21stGun
Summary: My humble effort to complete the saga of the Ice and Fire, really just something to do while waiting for The Winds of Winter, of which this is my 'fan' version, if you will.
1. Prologue

BEFORE ANYTHING, PLEASE , FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, READ ALL OF THE FIVE A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE BOOKS AVAILBLE (A GAME OF THRONES, A CLASH OF KINGS, A STORM OF SWORDS, A FEAST FOR CROWS, AND A DANCE WITH DRAGONS), THIS TAKES PLACE SHORTLY AFTER A DANCE WITH DRAGONS AND CONSEQUENTIALLY HAS SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRE SERIES.

Now, let's calm down.

What this is:

This is my humble, more accurately, _pathetic _attempt to conclude the entire ASOIAF saga, really just a way to fill the days and weeks and months waiting for the sixth book in the saga, The Winds of Winter.

This particular fic is my counterpart to TWOW, and when it is completed it will be followed by another one, called _A River of Fire_, which will be the counterpart to A Dream of Spring, the planned seventh and final Song of Ice and Fire book.

Disclaimers and notes:

First off, I do not own any of the characters or races or geography or names, etc. They belong to George R. R. Martin, whose writing I cannot hope to even approach within 1000000 light-years of it. Yes, I am aware that GRRM is against ASOIAF fanfics, but this is really just a way for me to fill the wait for TWOW (write like the Winds of Winter, George!) and see my pet theories 'come true'

Second of all, don't expect regular updates or brilliant plotting, this is fanfiction by a rather poor writer. If you have any complaints/constructive criticism/accolades (especially these!) or you have spotted a mistake, please post in the reviews section.

I hope you enjoy my humble efforts!

And, without further ado, let it begin!

**THE REIGN OF ICE**

**BY **

**THE21STGUN**

**Prologue**

The winds bit into his skin and bones, colder and bitterer than any steel, even the one Raev'stak had thrust into his stomach, that no human had forged. Even the tattered black cloak Raev'stak had mockingly allowed him to keep on offered no protection from the cold and snow. But he had to go on, trudge on through the snow, the cold, and the never-ending, eternally replaying memories in his ruined head. He had to tell them. He had to warn them.

He did not know how long he had been this way, a grotesque, macabre husk of a man, how long had passed since that cold day, so cold, when the old ranger had urged them to start for the Wall. All he knew that his memory was a black wall of nothingness with only one directive flashing like light in what had been his brain: _Warn them. They are coming. _

But he did remember how to get to where the ones he had to warn were. Just go south, until the great ice stops you. He continued on, his hideous, mutilated face pointing south. South, south, he had to go on, despite the searing ice in his soul, despite the memory of Raev'stak and his voice like the cracking of ice and all the ones he had brought over to the necromancer's side. _Not an Other, not anymore, for me at least, not an Other, for now I am become like them, bound to death and set against life forever_. The snow went on and on and on, and even any footprints he made were erased within moments by the relentlessly falling whiteness. _Good_, the once-man thought, _it will be harder for them to track me. Not even Will could find me now._

_Not that they can do anything to me. You cannot fight the dead._

He made good time, for a dead man. Within a day he was in sight of that great ice structure that had been built thousands of years ago to keep certain creatures out. _Creatures like me. _In front of him the smoke from the fires of Castle Black, black as its origin, melded into the darkness of predawn. _I am the fire that burns against the cold. _He had heard those words, somewhere, far away in time and space, and yet very near. He would have scratched his head, raking his fingers through his black hair, but that was just another thing Raev'stak had taken away and given only this pathetic quasi-'life' in return. He walked, slow and clumsy, tripping again and again, falling headfirst into the white, cold snow and rising slowly and awkwardly, ever south. South was where a faint glimmer of something resembling a life awaited, where his nerveless legs would carry him no matter what his will was. _If I have a will any more._ Until he had awakened, suddenly free of the commands of Raev'stak, the one armored in a coat of ever-shifting metal, whose sword was colder than ice. And from the commands of all the others like him. _Heh, _the dead man thought. He would have smiled, like the smiles that had broken many a maiden's heart, but his face refused to budge. It was frozen, just like the rest of him and everything around him.

The Wall no longer wept. Unlike that fragment of a memory in which he had strode out of the gate near Castle Black, seeing the great ice weep the tears of summer. _Summer? _he thought as he neared the ice, stark blue, towering above the white kingdom of snow, white as its new masters.

Even if his mouth would kindly move to allow breath and speech to flow in and out, he could not express the joy he felt when he saw the black cloaked watchman looking down at him. _I am the watcher on the walls. _

_Who said that? _

He did not enjoy the terror in the watchman's eyes, not anymore, not since he escaped Raev'stak and his band. All too soon both of the small fires he liked to call 'emotions' within him winked out. It was not as if he liked fire any more. He feared it.

He trudged on and on and on, fearing fire and arrows and a thousand and one other things. _I thought dead men had nothing to fear. _Finally, he stood a hundred paces before that iron gate, cold and hard like the north itself. He thought: _This is it. I'm almost back. Back to where I should be. _

He had only a vague recollection of what that place was, but he did know it was here.

Then, he heard a horn. _Oooooohtooooooohoooooh_.

_One blast, _he recalled, _one blast means that someone… someone they like is returning. Could it be they are welcoming me home?_

Then, it blew again, _Ooooohtoooooohooooooooh._

_Bad people. Bad people are coming, those wild wolf men._ _But I can handle it. No one can fight the dead._

Finally, another blast. _Oooohtooooooohooooooooooh._

And then he realized he was not welcome on the great ice. He realized they did not want him back.

_I'll make them see, _he thought, _I'll make them take me back. I am one of them, no? That's what the light in my memory tells me. This is where I belong._

He ran towards the gate, irrationally willing it to open at his command. But all that happened was that he was pushed back. And then he remembered. _I am the shield that guards the realms of men._

He'd said those words once, before the drunken, fat man who wore a crystal, beneath the small, pathetic icons of those he had sung to, once. In their light he had been named and anointed, and swore to protect the innocent and defend the weak, but that was while he _had had _a name. But now it was _they_ who shielded, _they_ who protected, _they_ who guarded the realm from monsters such as him. He could hear a strong, feminine voice, carried up to the heavens and reaching even higher than the cage that went up to the top of the Wall.

"_R'hllor!" _it cried, in voices that spoke of pain and grief and abandonment, _"I pray to you, Lord of Light, Creator, Heart of Flame."_

He was unsettled by the talk of fire, distant as it seemed here amidst the ice and snow and cold that he knew would bring his masters soon, all too soon. _The darkness will sweep over ice walls and steel gates and metal swords, will conquer all and quench the fire of life forever. _ Ignorant of these pessimistic, heretical thoughts, the voice continued in its desperate prayer. _"R'hllor, take the body and blood of this good man, who although worshipped other, false gods was a man worthy of You and Your light, R'hllor. Let him be reborn in Your light, and let his blood protect us from the dark and cold servants of the Other, whose name may not be spoken, who seek to extinguish the light. Protect us, R'hllor, Lord of Light, for the night is dark and full of terrors._"

He ran. Or more precisely, tried to run. His legs were little more than bones tied to skin by the power of Raev'stak, and failed to propel him through the snow very fast.

The fiery arrow lit up the darkness. _I am the sword in the darkness, the light that brings the dawn._

It missed, burning a clump of white snow to water a few yards ahead of him, but it was not the end. Another one, and another, and another, a triple-headed dragon breathing his murderous flame at him.

He turned around and in his brain something flashed that he still remembered from the darkness of his time with Raev'stak:

"_Ahl barkt el Ak Stak, ahl burz Ak Ahai, ahl barkt Ak Stak vurz nas dauth vuz burzi Dracarys. Barkt."_

When they hit him, the heat was not a pain, but a blessing. As the darkness took over and clouded out his pathetic existence, he heard someone shout: "There was only one pathetic one there, you fools! He looks… familiar. He looked like a Valeman."

Before Stak came to collect his soul, the dead man who, in his short eighteen years of life had been called _lordling _and _ser, _and occasionally, _popinjay,_ smiled inside and thought: _Night gathers, and now their watch begins._

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	2. Tyrion

**TYRION**

_If only I had been an eldest son, I would have been on the winning side_.

Tyrion Lannister looked out over the great city of Meereen, seemingly holding its breath in anticipation. _If you hold your breath too long you turn purple and you die. Joff proved that. And also that your uncle turns overnight into a kingslayer. Perhaps I am truly Lord Tywin's son as much as dear Jaime._

Jaime was not a Second Son, though. Nor was he a dwarf. Tyrion was both of these things, however, those and about to be incinerated by a dragon. The dragon queen, Daenerys Targaryen, was reputed to be dead, to be ashes, to have flown away on her great black beast, the one they called Drogon.

If all that was not enough, the nights were made sleepless by great roars and cries, rumored to be those of the dragon queen's other two dragons. _It's not fair, I need my beauty sleep!_

Penny snuck up behind him. "I'm scared, Tyrion."

The older dwarf was annoyed. "When are you _not _scared, girl? We're in a middle of a _war_, and what's more, on the losing side!" But Penny only whimpered. Tyrion slapped her. It felt good. _It reminds me of my dear Joff. Pity about him, he was so much fun to slap! _

Penny wept, and walked away. Tyrion had no sympathy for her. She should not have escaped from Yezzan's household. Nor should Ser Jorah Mormont have. The exile knight who'd kidnapped Tyrion back in the brothel at Selhorys never smiled, and this day was no exception. "Ready for the Commander, Imp?" he asked Tyrion, with no trace of any joy at yet another day of life. Tyrion nodded. They walked to the tent of Brown Ben Plumm, commander of the Second Sons, each looking away from another. There was never any love lost between the two. _Does he miss his little silver queen? Does he slide a hand between his legs at night and think of her?_ He wondered as they lifted the tent flap and beheld the war council.

At the wooden table were seated Brown Ben plus two other officers: Kasporio the second-in-command and Inkpots the paymaster. "Shall we begin, Imp?" asked Ben Plumm, as if announcing the entrance of a demon. "Yes." said Tyrion, taking a seat. Ser Jorah nodded and did the same. Kasporio growled at them: "What do you deign to intervene in, boy-man?" Tyrion smiled and said: "The Second Sons are on the wrong side. Look around you. Who are we fighting for? Those fat Yunkish 'generals'? The slave soldiers of Volantis and New Ghis? And what are we fighting against?"

Ser Jorah spoke up. "We Second Sons fight _for _gold. But dead men do not pay anyone, especially not the burned kind." Tyrion, annoyed at the interruption, went on. "Against Yunkai, Volantis, and New Ghis's slaves who would take any chance at freedom, Meereen has eight thousand Unsullied, who are loyal unto death to their master and have no manly wants. And then there are two dragons on the loose."

Tyrion had always wanted a dragon. But even at the fighting pits, when the dragon queen disappeared, he did not get anything but a snippet of a glimpse of Drogon the black beast. But there were still two more on the loose. _Perhaps the lion can tame the dragon? _He laughed inside. If he was a lion, he would be the wounded one who is cast out of the pride so that he does not take up valuable resources. In the meantime Brown Ben looked thoughtful. "I used to fight for the dragon queen myself, you know." he said. "I have a drop of the dragon blood myself. Viserion had a particular fondness for me, if I recall correctly."

Tyrion only grunted. There was no time for idle boasts now. "Commander, we cannot risk the fortunes of our company fighting for the losing side. We must join up with Meereen before the battle begins. Dragon blood is no use when dragonflame is boiling it to vapor."

Kasporio shook his head, his pointy beard swinging from side to side. "The Unsullied and the dragons are nothing without their queen, and she's dead."

Ser Jorah drew his sword, taken from the Second Sons armory. "We will yet see her return on Drogon's back, 'cunning', but _you _will certainly not!"

Brown Ben stood up and motioned for him to calm down. "Put up your steel, ser. We will gain nothing from fighting among ourselves, especially not any coin. Now, I suggest we send a representative to the Meereenese council to see if it would be worth our while to turn our cloaks a third time. Imp, I nominate you."

Tyrion Lannister smiled, and said: "Leave it to me, commander. Those dragons will be on our enemies soon."

The Meereenese clearly did not know how to welcome guests. _Iron and winches make bad hosts. Wenches, however, are good ones. _Tyrion cried out, in his dwarfish voice, "I am an emissary of the great free company of the Second Sons. I wish to negotiate our possible employment with the great people of Meereen!"

The watchman on the wall, an Unsullied by his spiked helmet, only laughed. "Where is your older brother, boy? Perhaps he should have gone instead of you. I have killed better than you, child. Off with you, or perhaps you wish to wait around for the big black dragon to return? I'm told he likes little boys like you!"

If he had really ever been a boy, it was not now. "Get your master, slave, or you will die like the others when the Volantenes get here."

"I will bring him to the gate, but be sure my brothers will keep a close watch on you while you wait."

_My brother didn't. He was too busy watching Cersei with lust and Robert with fear._

His waiting ended twenty minutes of remembering later, when a white-haired old man appeared at the other side of the iron gate. He looked familiar. When the gate lifted he recognized him.

"Ser Barristan Selmy. This is a long way for an old man such as you. Is my brother all _that_ bad?" Selmy did not acknowledge the insult. "Imp. It seems you have joined your brother in kingslaying."

"Ah yes, my repulsive nephew. No, that was not me, Gregor Clegane to the contrary."

"Never mind that now, Halfman. Brown Ben wishes to turn his cloak again?"

"I do, at least." said Tyrion.

"I think three thousand should do it?" Barristan Selmy said, trying to read Tyrion's face.

"I like counting coppers, but unfortunately that's Inkpots's job. But I say yes. The money, please?"

"Not with me. You will be paid once the battle is over. If any of us still live, gods have mercy." Selmy said, his voice seemingly betraying his age.

"I have a knack for surviving battles," Tyrion said, twisting his mouth in a smile that highlighted what used to be his nose, "although it usually costs me quite a bit."

The white-haired old knight opened his mouth to speak, but then a great shout assailed them from the walls of Meereen. "Sails on the horizon! Volantenes! Everyone to the walls!"

Ser Barristan quickly ordered the gate shut, the iron speaking a harsh cry of denial to Tyrion, then slamming into the ground. Barristan ran up to the walls, and looked towards Slaver's Bay. Tyrion did the same, and saw the sails. And then he heard the flames erupt in roars.

"Blackwater…" he said, dropping to his knees.


	3. Theon

**THEON**

Theon. His name was Theon. He was the Prince of Winterfell again, at least he had been in the past, but he was that same person again. He had never met the cruel man who liked to flay people, it was not him that had shortened his hand. It was someone else who was flayed, a dirty, pathetic man called Reek.

Asha didn't mind. He was her baby brother, after all. Winterfell was burned, he had done it, and all the Starks were dead, all the wolves who had almost converted him to being one of them. And now the lion would pick up where the direwolf had left off, in judging the Prince of Winterfell.

Stannis Baratheon, by the grace of the Lord King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Lord of Dragonstone and Storm's End, was a man who would cry foul if a herald left out any one of his title. The funny thing was, he did not actually possess the Iron Throne he claimed as King, and those lands he did possess were a thousand miles away. And if one criminal was in any proximity, a headsman's axe would meet him sooner rather than later.

Theon entered the frost-covered tent of Azor Ahai reborn, as the red woman he had heard tales of in the camp named him. He shivered, not only from the fear of the Lord of Dragonstone. _Winter is Coming_ the wolves liked to say, but his ten years as a hostage in their little den of a castle passed and the sun still warmed them, as much as it could in the north. But now winter had finally come, and the smallfolk said that a long summer was always followed by a long winter.

Theon would have shivered again, but Stannis had already caught sight of him. "Turncloak," he said sitting near a meagerly supplied fireplace, in a voice colder than the outside of his tent, "you come for your sentence?"

Theon knelt and put on his best imitation of the humble petitioner. "I come to beseech your kingly mercy." he said, his disfigured face even humbler.

Stannis did not smile at the frankly pathetic sight. Nor did his face change one iota. _Frozen by the snow, a lion in winter_ thought Theon. But his lips did part and let slip misty words. "Theon of the House Greyjoy, called Theon Turncloak for your treachery at Winterfell, in the name of R'hllor, Lord of Light, I sentence you to burn. Your king's blood will bring us victory over the Bastard of Bolton and all enemies of R'hllor."

Theon would have quaked, but really his sentence only brought comfort. No more dreams of that stinky man Reek and his cruel master Ramsay. No more flayed fingers. No more need to confirm his name to himself. And, if his uncle Aeron was to be believed, unlimited ale and women in the Drowned God's watery halls. That was something to look forward to. But then, the Drowned God hadn't saved him from Ramsay… _Yes, he did. He replaced me with Reek and now Reek's time is over and I am alive again_.

"Take him to the fire!" King Stannis shouted, and Ser Godry Farring, called Godry the Giantslayer came to fulfill the last son of Steffon Baratheon's command. Strong arms carried him out of the frosty tent, and out into the snow swept camp. The platform had already been erected, with a number of queen's men around it. The fire already burnt, defying the reign of the snow all around it. Ser Godry pushed him onto the wooden platform, and bound him hands, feet, legs and mouth with ropes. _Reek, Reek_ invaded his mind, but he fought it. He was the Prince of Winterfell, and princes did not fear anything. A horn blew, and one by one the Baratheon army, all the Farrings and Masseys and Flints and Norreys gathered to watch the ironman burn.

And so did his sister. Asha Greyjoy, Stannis's prize, had herself been threatened with burning for her king's blood, but she managed to avoid that fate. And when she identified the future target of R'hllor's wrath, she let out a great scream. Stannis, in the meantime, had made his way to the platform, and when he heard the scream he shouted: "Silence that iron bitch!" Ser Justin Massey obeyed his king and put a hand over her mouth. But she pushed it away and shouted at Stannis: "You will not burn him! You will not sacrifice him to your red demon! If he must die for his crimes, let it be a sacrifice to his god, the Drowned God of the Iron Isles! And let it be by your own hand, _Your Grace._ The man who raised Theon said it best: _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. _Theon was mostly a wolf anyway."

Theon would have protested, but it would do no good. It would at least be a comfort to receive some personal treatment from the cold monarch. Stannis nodded. "Eddard Stark was no friend to me, and his son was a traitor who would split my kingdom in half, but he was an honorable man, and no traitor. I will do as you say. It is not as if our previous sacrifices have done us any good. We're still stuck here in the snow far from Winterfell and the Bastard of Bolton waiting to kill us at any moment."

_But where will they find water to drown me? There is only snow, only snow..._

Stannis had the same thought. "Greyjoy! There is no water here, only snow. I must slay him by the sword, then."

Asha agreed, as a faint but insistent sound echoed. Stannis looked troubled for a moment, then bent to the task at hand. He drew his 'magic' sword, the so-called Red Sword of Heroes, Lightbringer, and held it over Theon's head. Absurdly, the words of his uncle flashed through his brain: _What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger. _

Then, as he mumbled a desperate prayer to the Drowned God, time stopped. When it unfroze the way the snow around them didn't seem to, the sword was no longer over his head, nor was his head disconnected from his shoulders. Theon stood up straight and beheld the carnage.

A flayed man seemed to fly up in the air above the battling troops, driving back Stannis and the banner of the Lord of Light. The sight of the flayed man stirred memories hidden away. _No, no, that wasn't me, that was another man, another who sought glory that was not his. _

But for all his efforts he could not stop the invasion.

_Reek, Reek, my name is Reek._


	4. Tyrion II

Everybody:

Thank you all for your support! As a reward here's another chapter featuring our favorite dwarf. If I hadn't followed GRRM's practice of not using actual chapter names, instead just stating the POV character, this one would be called: "Grass and Grass: Nothing Happens"!

**TYRION**

He rose again, weaker and softer.

All around him the assembled slaving powers of the environs of Old Valyria attacked Meereen- formerly of their number but now the only free city in Slaver's Bay.

The bay itself was ruled by the sails of the Volantene and New Ghiscari fleets, raised against Daenerys Targaryen, who had scourged the slave trade with her Unsullied and dragons. The disappearance of one of the aforementioned flying serpents along with the young queen did not in any way satisfy them. Tyrion looked out over the bay, gleaming white in the Essosi sun, and planned the next few (possibly last) hours of his life. It was clear he could not go back to the Second Sons camp; it would be in chaos and one thing Tyrion hated was chaos. Coppers were orderly. Coppers went where you told them to, whether it was to the mistress at the brothel or the mountain clan chief. Mercenaries camping under two runaway dragons in a middle of a climactic battle for control of Slaver's Bay, did not.

So Tyrion found himself running. Away from Meereen, away from the battle, away from the memory of lost olfactory organs. No horse under him to accelerate his departure, only the grass of Essos, only the fear. But a few whizzing missiles disagreed with him. They flew toward him, a mute roadblock preventing him from leaving the sight of the now-beleaguered leaguer of Meereen. But he walked on, the arrows _thudding _into the land behind him. He could not care less as the dragon queen's Unsullied died and killed with arrows and swords and spears. There was scarce a minute passing without a scream signaling a life's end or a curse reverberating amidst the clash of metal. Tyrion could not navigate the foreign area, could not find his way. On the horizon there was just more grass, a veritable ocean of green.

_An island of grass in a sea of fire. The Dothraki sea. _This was the realm of the horselords such as the one the Targaryen queen had married, where their horses grazed and their _khalasars _clashed for slaves and booty. Tyrion kept walking, His stunted feet hurt. He tripped, noseless and scarred face crashing into the ocean of grass. He tried to get up, but his tiny limbs were unable to support him. Since he was already a good two miles or so from the battle, he simply gave up, and stared at the cloudy heavens. Looking up always reminded him of his father. He had spent all his life under Lord Tywin's thumb, _Is that where whores go, Father? Heaven? Then I will never see Tysha again. Have fun with her, Father. _

The milky white clouds fluttered uncaring over the dwarf, and for a time he was at peace.

He had to get up, sometime. That 'time' was, unfortunately, a ten-minute period later. The clouds continued their indifferent gliding above him, but the grass was no longer hospitable. It started, unexpectedly, to scratch his legs. _Is that its way to say 'Stop polluting me with your filth, Imp'?_.

No one ever liked him lying on them. Especially not his whores. _But Tysha wasn't one, was she? She was my _wife. It was no longer relevant, now. Now was the time to ensure one's survival, not one's amusement. Tyrion's small legs somehow supported his admittedly small weight, lifting him up, like a king standing over his throne.

To the south, the city burned. He could not care less. _Leave the eunuchs and perfumed men to their deaths_. He continued on, on to the north, ever and ever deeper into the sea of grass.

And then the grass was trampled under the hooves of Dothraki horses. Tyrion almost shat himself with fear, but at the last moment he remembered himself. _The Dothraki despise those who walk on foot, and even more they despise the coward. _ The maester at Casterly Rock had pounded the young dwarf with all the knowledge he could muster from his studies at the Citadel, and the grown-up Tyrion had appreciated that when knowledge and his mind became his only weapon in the game of thrones.

The riders came into view, a party of six mercilessly crushing the grass, shouting something in what Tyrion supposed was Dothraki. Tyrion threw himself to the ground, hoping to avoid detection. It didn't work. The rider at the head of the party spotted him and cried out something in a sharp, rough voice. His five companions rode over to the dwarf's hiding spot faster than the wind of words, and the one at the head, apparently the leader, dismounted. He picked up Tyrion, forcing him up into the cruel world of Dothraki and seekers of dwarf heads, and dragged him up into his saddle. Being so small, Tyrion was able to fit into the saddle even though it was shared with the large Dothraki and his long braid, who seemed rather annoyed at the little man's breathing down his back.

The rider never looked back. After another command in the hard, cruel tongue of the horselords, they thundered away, further into the sea named for their people. Tyrion tried a few awkward greetings in the Common Tongue of Westeros, but after meeting only the indifferent back of his rescuer-cum-captor he realized that if the Dothraki knew any of his tongue he would have used it already.

Tyrion looked back, where Meereen was no longer visible, too wrapped up in its conflicts to bother making an appearance in Tyrion's sight. Would Ser Jorah survive? Would the bear ever be reunited with his maiden fair? When the exile knight had first kidnapped him he would not have given a mummer's fart. And yet, here, ever farther from where the assembled legions of enemies of the dragon queen fought her allies and so-called 'freedmen' of the Unsullied, he wondered.

When they had ridden an hour or so, nothing aside from yet more trampled grass in sight, a great roar sounded. It reverberated for miles around. A shadow fell on the great grass ocean far away.

Tyrion had always wanted a dragon.


	5. Victarion

**VICTARION**

Slaver's Bay had become Blood Bay.

Fiery arrows from the defenders of Meereen had set aflame the Volantene and Ghiscari galleys, and their slave crews had flung themselves into the waters named for their kind, preferring drowning to burning along with their masters.

Even then they burned. It was amazing, reflected Victarion Greyjoy, how fire seemed to burn on seawater. Was it the salt? Victarion had heard tales of the battle of Blackwater Bay, and the wildfire Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, used to set Stannis's fleet on fire. _Two gods protect me from such. I have better things to be than charred meat. A husband and master to dragons. _He looked out to the stern of the _Iron Victory_, where the red priest Moqorro looked out at the waters crushed under the hulls of the Iron Fleet. He called out for the 'Dark Flame' as named by Steffan Stammerer, and the servant of R'hllor quickly joined the Master of the Iron Fleet at the bow. Gesturing with his hand that R'hllor had healed, Victarion growled at him: "Well, Dark Flame, what has your red god shown you about the coming battle? Do I come out a victorious conqueror or perhaps a defeated coward?" The red priest bowed, and replied:

"My lord, the flames have been unresponsive lately. There is only the blank yellow and red of fire and R'hllor does not heed my prayers. Sometimes, I sit by the fire hoping for a vision but all I see is snow and corpses. Sometimes I put my hand into the flames and I withdraw it, not from the heat, but from the blinding cold." Moqorro shivered.

Victarion's healed hand itched to strike Moqorro. Just when he had believed R'hllor would deliver the silver queen into his hand… But it wouldn't help. The priest had healed his hand when Victarion had taken him aboard, proving the power of his god. On the other hand, when had his brother the Damphair's Drowned God helped at all? Moqorro had predicted future events with chilling accuracy.

Victarion waved him away. Meereen formed up on the bow of the _Iron Victory_, generously contributing smoke to the skies of Essos. He looked to the other side, where the sails of the Iron Fleet challenged the smoke of Meereen for heavenly supremacy. White and red and black, with illustrations of family symbols, animals, and (mainly) women towering above the gleaming waters. _This is mine. Euron can keep his islands and green lands of Westeros and his dusky woman too. I have his fleet, his dragon horn, and his queen. And dragons._

The Crow's Eye had a crown too, driftwood, forged from the shouts of the people at the kingsmoot, awed by the mighty roar of Dragonbinder. _It's mine now. And the silver queen's dragons will answer to my call. I will sweep the Seven Kingdoms with them. Then we will see how the Crow's Eye does without a body, let alone one eye._

The wind blew them north and north, towards the coast. Finally, they could see the battle in full swing.

The Volantene and Ghiscari fleets had landed their troops in the harbor of the former slave city, where the flames burned highest. The Iron Fleet was now only a few leagues away from the galleys.

It was time for the ironborn to claim the seas for the Drowned God.

"Get your weapons!" Victarion cried in a voice every bit as commanding as Dragonbinder, "Shoot flaming arrows at them! Get your swords! What is dead may never die, but those enemies who survive will be our thralls and their women our salt wives!"

The crew of the _Iron Victory_ rushed to their tasks. They had good reason to. Within moments fire began dropping in arrow form on the ship and many of its closer sisters. Soon the main mast of the _Urron Redhand _caught fire, consuming the rest of the ship within a minute. The cries of the crew echoed from one side of the bay to the other. _They were no true ironborn. Ironborn do not cry even in death. The only saltwater in their lives is their drowning._ Victarion had not been too much of a religious man lately, but with priests accurately predicting the future and healing arms, well, it was very convenient to believe.

The battle went on, oblivious to Victarion's convictions. Arrows pierced men on both sides, crumpling to the decks or falling into the impartial waters. Some burned, some bled, many, many died. Every so often the _whoosh _of flame would take a ship, condemning its crew to death by fire or water. _It seems that the Lord of Light and the Drowned God are having a merry contest for the souls of men. _Victarion took a bow and aimed at a Volantene galley directly ahead. The arrow missed, but caused one of the rowers to drop his oar. Within minutes it was close enough to board. Victarion led a party of five ironborn, jumping over the waves and onto the ship.

Terrified, many slave rowers dropped their oars and bodies into the raging bay. Not that it saved many of them. One of the boarding party, a fuzzy-bearded boy of ten-and-six called Dagon Pyke shot one of the swimmers, then two. Soon enough the bay turned red with the blood of Volantene slaves. Victarion ran towards the steering wheel. Near the bow a bloody-faced, ugly man with the insignia of Volantis- a great elephant- on his breast grunted at him, sword in hand. Victarion nonchalantly shortened him by a head with his sword, cranium falling with a sickening _thump _to the deck. Victarion seized it and tossed it into the sea, an afterthought of an offering to the god of the Iron Islands. A brave rower tried to impale him through the chest with a dirk, but instead got a sword through his gut from Dagon. Victarion regarded him with a look of distracted gratitude, then proceeded into the captain's cabin.

A fat, gouty-looking man sat at a wooden desk, terror dominating his heavy face staring at the iron captain. It got a generous downsizing courtesy of Victarion Greyjoy, blood and fat staining the wooden floor alike. Victarion ran out of the cabin and beheld a ship literally dead in the water. He almost slipped on several rowers looking up sightlessly at the uncaring heavens. All around the Iron Fleet had managed to hem in the Volantenes and Ghiscari between them and Meereen, and so by the minute the slave fleets dwindled. The arrows from the Ghiscari further to Meereen dwindled as Victarion beheld the scene.

Then, he heard a roar, echoing from the banks of the distant Skahazadhan to the back of the ironborn fleet. He knew exactly what to do. _It's time for Euron to keep his promises. _Running from bow to stern he jumped onto his flagship, only marginally damaged by fire. Moqorro was cowering belowdecks, beside a fire. Dragonbinder was clutched in his hand, the red priest's sweat running over the Valyrian glyphs etched on the horn. Victarion drew his dirk before the Dark Flame ever saw him. He stabbed Moqorro in one hairy arm, the blood gushing onto the blade. Moqorro looked at him, unbelieving. Victarion mustered his best faux-comforting voice. "Don't worry, my friend. You're not going to die yet. Not yet. But you will, soon enough. In fact, it was you who doomed yourself. What was it that you said? Oh yes, _you must claim it with blood._" Victarion snatched the dragon horn from Moqorro's grasp, and shoved it into the red man's mouth. He dragged the bleeding man abovedecks, where the harbor of Meereen was just out of reach. Then, a horrible, mighty, fiery roar consumed everything. Victarion distanced himself and covered his ears, spilling blood onto them from the dirk. It seemed to go on and on without end, while all around men died while the gods of fire and water did nothing to answer their desperate prayers. Another great shriek sounded. From the direction of Meereen a large white beast flew towards Victarion and the Iron Fleet. When the roar of Dragonbinder, its glyphs glowing bright gold, finally ebbed away, it was directly above _Iron Victory_. Victarion did not need to look up to see it. He felt it in his mind, a great presence of savagery and fire. _Blood must pay for blood, fire must pay for fire._


	6. Davos

**DAVOS**

Skagos stretched across the horizon, grey under an even greyer sky.

Davos Seaworth looked out over the stern of the _Black Wind _and beheld the island of the cannibals. At least, that is what the hearth-tales and storytellers claimed it was. He had faced worse in the service of the one true king of Westeros, Stannis Baratheon, and his shortened hand would not shake when he landed on the northernmost boundary of Stannis's reign.

At least, the lands he claimed to rule. Stannis Baratheon had never sat the Iron Throne in his life, yet he had outlived all the others who had claimed it when his brother Robert died. Davos took that as a good sign. Surely someone up there, whether it was the Seven or fiery R'hllor or the nameless gods of the north was protecting the true king, keeping him alive to shepherd Westeros through the coming hard times. Autumn was almost over, and the summer preceding it had lasted ten years. Beyond Skagos Davos could see the coast of the lands beyond the Wall. Stannis had defeated the wildling invasion led by Mance Rayder, but tales were told, mainly to frighten children, of darker things…

This was not relevant, however, to the task at hand. Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, had promised his support for the chosen of R'hllor on one condition: that Davos retrieve Rickon Stark, last surviving son of Lord Eddard, from Skagos.

Davos had his doubts about this mission: ostensibly Manderly's intention was to proclaim Rickon Lord of Winterfell and rally the north, but who could say that Manderly truly intended to produce an heir to Robb Stark, not Eddard? It didn't matter, in the end. Rickon had no swords at his disposal, and supposedly was all of four or five years old. The lords of the north would bend the knee to their true king. The Red Wedding should have taught them about proclaiming a king of their own.

Finally, the coast of Skagos expanded to a large horizontal band of grey soil, on which a small, pathetic-looking village sat like an indolent matron. Kingshouse. Beyond towered hills and mountains, no lighter than the lowlands. Here was the last of the Starks of Winterfell, and it seemed to Davos a rather fitting place for a Stark. All grey and cold and forbidding. When the small wooden _Black Wind_ finally docked at a small wooden pier, Davos, a few soldiers bearing the merman of Manderly, and Wex Pyke, the mute squire who had managed to follow Rickon and his wildling companion, a woman called Osha, to Skagos and returned to tell the tale, got off the ship and marched into Kingshouse.

The so-called 'capital' of Skagos was really just a collection of wooden hovels with thatched roofs and, at the center, a wooden cabin with the banner of House Magnar, a green lobster on white, holding a black harpoon. Davos led them to the door, a sad, soft thing. He knocked, but no one answered. _The great lords of Skagos do not treat with onion knights._ He knocked again, and this time he heard heavy feet crash down on wooden floors. The door opened, and a wolfskin-wearing, ugly-faced man said in a rough tone: "Flesh. What do you want?"

The memory of his prison cell under the Stone Drum warmed him. It was that cold. He would occasionally pray to the Mother not for salvation or light, but for _warmth_, but no answer seemed to pierce the cold, hard wooden ceilings of the dungeon. He could not even see any of his fellow 'flesh'. There was only cold and darkness and the only tactile feeling was the ropes binding him to the wall. Above there were faint sounds of pacing, heavy feet and occasionally vague grunting. Davos was sweating all over, his hands shaking like a ship on a stormy sea.

Then, there were heavy steps, seemingly crushing the air into submission. Davos, all semblance of manhood gone, wet himself. Absurdly, as the steps approached him threateningly, his entire mind was filled with wonder that his legs were not covered with frozen piss. Then, the light engulfed him. Red it was, red as Melisandre's nightfires, red as blood. And, like the red woman's fires, it revealed. Not the future, but the present. In front of him was the most surprising face Davos had ever seen.

The face of a noble. Davos had never pictured Skagosi as fair-haired and pleasingly-faced, but the face that stared at him from the other side of the torch fire. In harsh-accented Common Tongue it spoke, commanding and threatening at the same time: "Come, meat. Nedsson want."

The ropes yielded to the mighty pull of the Skagosi, and released the onion knight from its possessive embrace. Blood tried to fill Davos's dried-out legs as he made a step, and another, and another on the stone floor. Pulled along by his unexpected savior, Davos ascended the winding stair, up onto the floor, wooden and slightly warmer.

And, across the main room of the hall of House Magnar, by torchlight, Davos Seaworth could see a childish face, grinning at him as his savior bowed.

The Skagosi spoke: "Your Grace, we have brought your onion knight. Do as you will, in the meantime I have some unfinished business downstairs."

The fair-haired man turned around, and without giving Davos so much as a glance went down the stairs again. There were screams echoing up through the ceiling.

The waters around Davos churned and rose high, high enough to challenge the heavens for supremacy. At least, that was what Davos Seaworth, Lord of the Rainwood and Hand of the King, thought as he was sitting, bound in ropes yet again, on the deck of the _Skagos Star. _The blond Skagosi who had released him from his previous captivity, Ragnar Emundsson, Lord of Kingshouse, smiled at him. "So, onion knight, do you think onions can float?"

Davos didn't answer. It was interesting how on both sides of Westeros the ritual of drowning was used as execution. They were heading north, towards the uninhabited island of Skane, to commend him to the mercies of the God of the Seas. "He wants to use the poor boy for his little war, that Stannis. And he won't even come himself to do it, so he sends his pet onion to bring him the boy." That was what that wildling woman who appeared to be governing Skagos in 'King' Rickon's name had said to Ragnar when he had returned from slaughtering Davos's companions. _Poor Wex… He never got that knighthood he surely must have dreamed of. _And the men from White Harbor: Jothos, Snap, Kivs.. They had been good men, all, Davos knew from the short time he had spent with them, and now they were probably food for Ragnar's large brood of children and nephews and nieces. _If he hasn't eaten half of them by now. _At least they were already dead when the Skagosi descended upon them.

They had arrived. Davos could see another bleak rock dead ahead of them, even from his low position. "Alright men, it's time to wash off our little onion!" said Ragnar, haughtily. He was pushed up, so now he could observe the even stormier seas encircling Skane. It was so very, very cold. Then, they heard a scream, and steam rose from several crewmembers near the stern. Davos turned and saw.

Krakens. Had someone gotten ahold of Lord Celtigar's magic horn? Davos would have chuckled inside had he not saw who rode the krakens.

Men, bloody and mutilated, splattered with their own gore. Their eyes burned at him, a blue that burned away all mercy and compassion in a flood of ice.


	7. Reek

**REEK**

The snow, white as it was when it fell, could not resist the rivers of blood and gore that littered it.

Reek had an elevated vantage point high above the carnage, on the stage the cruel men in the metal suits had tried to burn him on. But soon he would be home. His kind master, Lord Ramsay, had come with all his strength, plus his father's men, to take him home. The flayed man Lord Ramsay flew above his army called Reek home. Reek ran off the stage, towards his friends beneath the banner of the Dreadfort, his thin and bruised legs propelling him away from the evil devil-worshipper Stannis's flames. The snow would just not stop falling on the dead and dying.

He ducked to avoid a sword, then fell on the cold, unforgiving ground to avoid a whistling arrow. The snow competed with the arrows for dominance of the sky, winning when the arrows fell, then re-fighting the battle with each volley. Reek plodded on, lowering himself beneath the crowd of men in boiled leather and mail. A scream, another, two more, a curse, a battle cry. Heads rolled onto the snowy ground, as did limbs and so much blood. Ramsay Bolton was turning the traitor camp into an outsized version of the Dreadfort dungeons. Reek was used to it, not like the shivering and shaking boys he ran past. They had not lost their fingers to the tender arts of Skinner. They were still males in the full sense of the word. Reek did not have time for envy, though. Lord Ramsay was surely waiting for him, waiting to welcome back his Reek.

When he had reached the edge of the battlefield, Reek saw that the Bolton camp was deserted. _Lord Ramsay is a brave warrior, he doesn't cower like Stannis. _He sat down, and waited for his lord.

In the meantime he watched the battle go forward, and back, and forward yet again. He panicked when it seemed the fiery heart of R'hllor, the god who had almost tasted his blood this very day, would reach the camp, and exult when the flayed man advanced. Unbidden, a memory of him being with men just like those, fighting and killing and cheating death with every second of life, swam up. He swatted his head, crying out loud: "No! No! That's not me! That's the prince, the one they wanted to burn! I'm Reek, _Reek_, Ramsay's Reek! It rhymes with seek!" He was lucky no one was in the camp.

Except for one man. "Hello, _Reek._" he said. He was ugly, with wormy lips and ghostly grey eyes.

When the battle had ended, when the fiery heart, flayed man and King Tommen's lion and stag no longer flew in challenge of the still-falling snow, the commanders of the victorious army gathered in Ramsay Bolton's tent.

Reek shivered, yet again. Lord Ramsay had treated him fairly well, for an escaped servant. "Well, _Turncloak_, are you ready to be my Reek again? This time you won't have to sleep with Ben's girls. This time you will get a nice tent with its very own hearth to keep you warm, and perhaps even a warm female body to warm you even more." Ramsay had said, like a seduction. Reek couldn't resist. Now, he cowered near Lord Ramsay's seat next to the council table. Lord Ramsay sat next to his father Lord Roose, facing Arnolf Karstark, who had contributed much to their victory when his troops turned on Lord Stannis's men. Next to him were the grossly fat Wyman Manderly and tall Jared Frey. Lord Roose began the proceedings by candlelight in the winter night. "My son, and dear Arnolf, soon to be Lord Arnolf of Karhold, my lords. The Iron Throne will surely favor us after this day. Do you realize that thanks to our efforts, chiefly yours, Ramsay, the _war is finally over_?"

Arnolf Karstark, an old, bent man whose cane rested against the wooden table, replied impatiently: "The war is not over. The ravens bear tales of krakens rising from the sea and attacking the Reach."

Lord Ramsay interjected: "Shut up, you bent old man. Has age taken your heart and returned it as water? Euron Greyjoy is thousands of miles south if that is true, and if not, well, the ironborn have better places to reave than snowy wastes like this place. Wouldn't you say so, Reek?" He kicked at his pathetic little servant. "Mind your tongue, boy." said Lord Roose, "Lord Arnolf is a valued ally of our house and a loyal subject of King Tommen."

Lord Wyman spoke up, his voice seeming as heavy as his body: "We should head back to Winterfell and feast and revel in the defeat of Lord Stannis. There are natural hot springs under Winterfell, we should not stay here to freeze or starve, in that order."

"Wise words," said Roose Bolton, "but hardly adding anything. Did you really think we would stay here and wait for the snows to claim us? Have no fear, my lord, lampreys you shall have soon." Lord Wyman did not like this reference to his insulting nickname, Reek could see. Jared Frey's face was more communicative than any raven's message: _I am quite bored with this time-wasting and unnecessary conversation _it said. "Get Maester Ryster", Lord Roose went on," and tell him to send ravens to all the important holdfasts and especially to King's Landing. Have him inform them of our great victory and service to our good King Tommen." The others nodded agreement.

"We shall ride for Winterfell and its warm comforts on the morrow. Winter may be coming but we'll stay warm all through it." For the first time since Reek had come to know him, Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of the North, smiled. But his son's smile was even larger and far more meaningful. "Lord father," he said sweetly, "I think my Reek is getting lonely on the cold floor under my chair. Perhaps we should send him his sister to keep him company?"

Lord Roose nodded. To the guard posted outside and armored in the livery of the Dreadfort, he called: "Bring in the kraken!" The guard gave a mischievous grin. He went outside, and Reek saw his armor become coated with sheets of white snow.

He returned a few minutes later, pulling a bound and gagged Asha Greyjoy, full of still-bleeding wounds and bruises. Ramsay smiled even more on sight of the ironborn woman. "So, Reek, what shall we do with your sister?"

_No, no, don't say that, you're trying to goad me into action so you can kill me, no, no, I won't go along with it. _But Ramsay only motioned for the prisoner to be brought straight to him. She was, and Ramsay's smile turned into a leer. He drew a knife and cut her loose. She made motions as if to escape. But Ramsay only pushed her to the floor and began to claw at her clothes. _He's too tired to hunt, this time. _But the knife remained in his hand, above the now-naked Asha. He spurted early, obviously because he had not had a woman in a while, with his lady 'Arya Stark' abducted by the singer Abel and the spearwives. His father only looked on with distaste and the other lords had gone in terror. Then, Ramsay picked up the knife and stabbed her through the breast. She wailed, and died quickly. Ramsay stood up, covered in blood, and grinned at Reek. "Don't look so sad, Reek, the fun's only started." Ramsay drew the knife from the flailing corpse of Asha Greyjoy and pointed it at Reek. Theon Greyjoy threw himself at the Bastard of Bolton. But Lord Ramsay drew back and called: "Bring in our lord of fiery hearts! I think I shall have need of a new Reek soon!"

The knife was blood-red in the candlelight.


	8. Victarion II

**VICTARION**

The cream-and-gold dragon flew over Meereen, belching fire as if he was displeased with last night's dinner.

Victarion Greyjoy watched from the bow of the _Iron Victory, _his face twisted in a furrow of intense concentration. He could _taste _the fire he belched from his gullet, _feel _the feeble little arrows bump into his impenetrable scales, completely harmless as a butterfly. The _Iron Victory _glided on the fiery-reddish waters of Slaver's bay, towards the burning city. Victarion could smell victory in the air, mingling with the sweet, sweet smell of dying men. If they had enough energy to project their screams and curses to the _Iron Victory, _they would have fallen on ears deaf as the ears of the green land gods.

Victarion's dragon, under his commands unspoken but well-understood nonetheless, spat his flames at a clutch of spiky-hatted soldiers defending the west wall running along the bay. He was unsure whether it was himself or the dragon that was bitterly disappointed when they failed to so much as squeak. He exulted as he took flight yet again, ascending like some green land septon's idea of a holy man, to heaven. The city of Meereen spread under the canopy of his wings like the legs of the dusky woman. The proud pyramids were jutting up, pathetically attempting to reach the sky and say "I am above this carnage". Most of them were already blackened by fire of arrow and dragon.

Back on the ship, Victarion grinned in anticipation. The harbor was less than a league away now. The silver queen was waiting. _She won't be pleased I have a dragon, but the unwilling women are the most statisfying, oh yes. _

They came to the harbor, burning and obscured by smoke.

"Everyone off! Now is the time, brothers, to make good on all the promises my brother made you! Dragons!" "Dragons!" The crew of the _Iron Victory_, and several of her sisters shouted. "Salt wives!" they shouted too, with an unmistakable, impatient heat.

"Salt wives!" Victarion echoed. He descended from the heavens with the dragon, preparing to bathe Meereen in another cleansing fire.

The ironborn got off their ships, the great longships stopping after a long voyage from the Shield Islands. Their shouts echoed off the great pyramids of Meereen that Victarion, in his mind, overflew on his way to cook the slave soldiers in their spiky hats.

He disengaged from the beast to disembark. He smelled the air, blood and sweat and salt water, but even a hint of perfume.

_Not Pyke, that's for sure. _

The Unsullied, as they were called, were waiting. Their faces showed no emotion that normal men did, no fear, no determination, and no battle lust. _But then, they are no true men at all. _

Victarion was, however. He took his sword in his hand, and pointed it at one of the pyramids. It was burned brown. The ironborn charged into the city, and engaged the Unsullied. The dragon clawed at his mind, trying to bring him up into the heavens where it flew, searching for prey, but he had to stay on the ground for now.

One of the eunuch soldiers tried to stab him through the heart. Victarion Greyjoy smashed his spiky helmet in with a mighty sword blow. Victarion watched as his men poured into the streets marked with blood, as the kraken entered the realm of the harpy.

But the kraken had also business with the dragon. The cream-and-gold beast flew down to him, and then the Captain of the Iron Fleet knew what he had to do.

He jumped. The scaly skin of the dragon scraped his thighs, almost drawing blood, but here, where blood flowed like water, Victarion didn't notice.

Meereen grew larger and larger as the dragon ascended. From here, Victarion could see his men, fighting an unmovable wall of Unsullied. On the other side of the city, an ocean of endless grass shifted with the wind. _So that's that Dothraki Sea the fool was talking about. When the battle is done I shall go there to claim my silver queen. _

He pushed the dragon down, and they descended, towards the fray. He expected the dragon to breathe some of his fire on the Unsullied, but he only flew up when he was about to crash into them. _Perhaps he requires a command to unleash his flames? _He cast about for a fitting word. "Fire!" he shouted in the Common Tongue, but that had no effect. He tried variations on the word 'fire', to no avail.

The battle continued to rage beneath him. The ironmen gained a few inches, then were pushed back again. Victarion steered the dragon back towards the fray, and jumped off when it was safe. He caught an Unsullied from the back, and within moments his sword protruded from the front of the eunuch's stomach.

It was then he realized how hopeless it was.

The ironborn force was weakening, losing men and ground with every passing minute. The battle could not be won, not against the completely unbreakable fortitude of the Unsullied.

So he left. He called his dragon again, and mounted it. He soared above Meereen yet again, and this time he left it behind. _Meereen is nothing, only a festering pit of slavers, eunuchs, and old women. The true prizes are the Seven Kingdoms, and the dragon queen will give them to me. Euron will burn, him and his Seastone Chair, and I will sit the Iron Throne amidst the skulls of my enemies. _

Meereen disappeared behind and below him, and from his awareness at large. It was the grass he concentrated on now; the Dothraki sea.

Then, he heard the roar. He looked down at the dragon's mouth, snapping in the air that beat at Victarion's face, but it was not the source. He looked at the ground below, but then a second roar snapped him back to the air.

It was another dragon. Black it was, blacker than midnight, and larger than Victarion's. And it had a rider. Victarion could not make out who it was with his eyes, but his mind could.

_The dragon bitch. _"You! Bitch!" he shouted, but the other dragon only roared again, and it seemed it would breathe its fire at any moment.

He steered his beast towards the other, and shouted again: "You! Dragon queen! I am Victarion Greyjoy, and I am your husband now!"

"Viserion!" was the only reply, and Victarion could not understand what it meant. "Viserion! To me!" the other rider continued.

Victarion turned his beast around, and began to follow the black dragon from behind. Then, the other rider answered: "Care to repeat that?" "_Dracarys!" _the rider added.

The huge, black beast turned around, and belched fire. Victarion could feel the heat on his face and on his entire body. "_Dracarys!" _he repeated, and his own dragon breathed his flames. They danced, the black dragon and the white, above the Dothraki sea. And then the third dragon joined them. Green he was, and his size was between the the sizes of the other two. The black dragon's rider shouted: "Rhaegal! To me!"

_This is not good _thought Victarion as he pushed his dragon down. Then, two jets of flame struck him from behind. He could feel the fire start to consume him, and with his armor taken off so it wouldn't encumber him, his clothes quickly burned off. Then, it was his flesh's turn.

_Euron will never have his dragon or his queen now, _was his last, slightly comforting thought, and a moment later a collection of ashes formerly known as Victarion Greyjoy dropped from the dragon called Viserion, and dispersed in the wind.


End file.
